


confessions should be better planned

by brookethenerd



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Fever, Love Confessions, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 05:24:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21350953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: Steve gets sick (and talkative) and the reader takes care of himaka a sickfic and confessions!!!
Relationships: Steve Harrington/Reader, Steve Harrington/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 109





	confessions should be better planned

A sick Steve Harrington is a nightmare. And you would know; you’re well-acquainted with him - and the rest of them, as well. Drunk Steve, happy Steve, sad Steve, concussed Steve, even angry Steve are easier to deal with than a sick Steve. All equally stubborn and borderline annoying, but all far more manageable; a sick Steve resembles a difficult toddler.

You’d woken at eleven - barely twenty minutes after falling asleep - to the phone ringing, and when you answered, all you could gather was that his parents were out of town and he had a fever and _could you come, could you pretty please come?_

So, there you were, using the spare key under the mat, making your way through the vast empty house to Steve’s bedroom. When you entered, the covers were pulled back and the pillows discarded in weird spots, but you didn’t see Steve. You went to his bathroom and stepped in.

Steve lay shirtless on his back on the tile, one arm thrown across his chest, eyes closed. His skin was pale and ghastly, and when he opened his eyes at your arrival they were bloodshot.

“Why are you on the floor?” You placed your hands on your hips. Steve smiled lazily.

“Nice and cold down here.”

You picked your way across the small bathroom and over his long frame to kneel beside him, placing a hand on his forehead. His skin was hot - really hot. You didn’t need a thermometer to know he was burning up.

“Thanks for comin’” he murmured with a smile.

“How long have you been like this?”

“Only…a day.”

“Jesus. And your parents just…” you shook your head. “Of course. Of course, they just left.”

“_S’okay_,” Steve said, “I’m good.”

“You have a hospital-level fever, and you’re currently cradling the toilet.”

“_You’re_ cradling the toilet,” he retorted, pushing himself unsteadily to a sitting position against the bathtub. You pushed his feet aside, retrieved the first aid kit from beneath his sink, and wet a rag before sitting cross-legged beside him. His skin was covered in a light sheen of sweat despite his shivers. You folded up the rag and pressed it to his forehead; his face contorted and he pulled back.

“Too cold.” He shook his head and pouted like a petulant child.

“Dude, you’ve got a serious fever and we need to get it down. It’s either this or an ice bath.”

“You sayin’ I’m too hot to handle?”

“No, I’m saying your brain is burning itself alive.”

“And that I’m hot.” You snorted and pressed the cloth back to his forehead, taking his hand and replacing yours on top of the rag, telling him to _hold_. He closed his eyes, relaxing slightly, and you fished acetaminophen and some cold medicine out of the first aid kit. A half-full bottle of water had been left on the counter and you grabbed it, dumping a few pills into your hand.

“Open up.” You lifted the pills to his mouth and he parted his lips. It wasn’t enough, of course, and you used your other hand to tug on his chin, opening his mouth far enough to dump the pills in. You dumped water in, next, and though he squirmed, he swallowed the pills and liquid.

“Good boy,” you said, patting him on the cheek. He grinned.

“You look-” he reached out to tap your nose gently with his pointer finger, “amazing.” Tap. “Incredible.” Tap. “Unbelievable.” Tap. You swatted his hand away on the last and he pouted.

“You’re delirious.”

“Definitely am,” he said, “but doesn’t mean s’not true.”

Steve was notoriously flirty - you’d been his best friend for years, and half your relationship was stupid flirting and cutting insults - but he also knew the line. He was teetering on the edge now; you weren’t sure if you wanted him to tumble over.

_You_ wanted _him_, of course. But not just in the dark under the influence of alcohol; not as anything but the whole thing. And you didn’t know if Steve wanted that; you didn’t know if you were both capable of that. If you weren’t, all those years together went away. You couldn’t bear the thought of tucking all of that away because you screwed up the relationship by stretching it until it snapped. The recoil might not be survivable.

“Come on.” You hooked your arms beneath him, hoisting him up. He grumbled in protest but stumbled to his feet, half his weight against you. “Time for bed.”

“I’m not tired,” he mumbled, breath hot against your cheek. _You_ were so getting sick. And yet, with his arms gripping you and his hair tickling your cheek, you were finding it hard to care. Was it possible his delirium was creeping onto you?

“Tell that to the tile you were kissing.”

“I think,” he said, I’m dying.” 

You helped him toward the bed, using a hand to awkwardly tug up the blankets and sit him down. “You’re not dying, drama queen. You just spend too much time around those infectious fourteen-year-olds.”

“My kids?” He asked, face lighting with a smile. “Love those guys.”

“Yes,” you said. “And as lovely as they are, they’re a teeming cesspool of germs.” You moved to his dresser and pulled out a clean shirt, returning to where he sat on the bed. He lifted his arms and you helped him into the shirt, forcing yourself not to pay attention to the muscles that contracted when he moved.

“You’re pretty when you’re givin’ me hell,” he said with a goofy grin. Your stomach fluttered - the traitor - and you were thankful for the fever that prevented him from noticing the blush rise to your cheeks.

“Lay down, will you?” He did as you asked but lay on the far side of the bed. You reached across to pull the covers up over him and he reached out to catch your wrist.

“Don’t go,” he said, staring up at you with big brown eyes, looking young and miserable. You could practically see the germs jumping from his skin to yours and digging in. You’d be the one feverish in the bed in a few days, you’d put money on it.

Plus, it was rare to see a soft Steve, at least these days. He’d zipped up his safety net after everything that summer - after everything you’d all lost - and rarely let it falter. But here, sick and sleepy and sweet, he wasn’t trying to _be_ anything. The last thing you wanted to do was leave; the last thing you wanted to do was leave him _alone_.

So, you stayed. You climbed into the bed beside him - making sure to leave space between you, though the rational part of your brain told you trying to avoid germs was pointless now - and flicked the lamp off. Steve shivered and scooted closer; you pulled his covers up over his shoulders and he balled the blankets in his fists, smiling at you through his fevered haze.

“You know I love you, right?” He mumbled, brows cocking. You laid your head on the far side of his pillow and ignored the twisting in your belly. You knew; neither of you said it to each other, but you knew he had your back, knew he’d take a bullet for you in an instant. You knew that he hated the taste of coffee and pretended to like it, and he knew how much you abhorred sleeping with a window open. The knowledge and the sacrifice and the ease; what was that, if not love?

“I know.”

“No-like…_love_ love you. In love with you,” he said, reaching out a pale hand, thumb tracing along your jaw tenderly, somehow the most clearheaded he’d been since you found him on the floor. It was your turn to feel flushed, though not from fever. He was over the line, far past it; you were content to scrap the line altogether; was he? Would he wake up and regret it?

“Mhmm.”

“I love you this much.” He pulled his arms out from beneath the blankets and held his arms out as wide as he could. The concoction of medication in his blood had clearly kicked in, and though you knew it was just a drugged haze, you couldn’t help but smile. Because, as belligerent or dorky as an inebriated Steve was, he didn’t lie. He told the truth; it was the only time you could always count on unfiltered truth.

“Steve-”

“This much!” He spread his arms out wider. You reached out to pull them down and said, “Okay, I get it, I get it.”

Steve tucked himself back under the covers with a content smile. He was too hot and cold to lay close to, and you were still trying to maintain some semblance of health, but he did fumble around for your hand and thread his clammy fingers through yours.

“I mean it,” he said. Surprisingly, you believed him.

“Tell me again tomorrow,” you said, “And I might say it back.”

He smiled and closed his eyes, nodding and shifting closer, forehead pressed to your arm. Your stomach fluttered and you let your hand settle on his head, smoothing his hair down and fussing with the knotted strands until you fell asleep.

And when you woke up - with a headache - Steve held his promise and said it again; it was hard to be angry at him for getting you sick, after that. Besides, you had him to take care of you.


End file.
